


How Inconvenient, Old Bean

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: When he had started over, Draco had never really believed that happiness was possible. But here he was, living as a Muggle, a beautiful boyfriend, a great job. Things are perfect. So why does it feel like they may not be perfect at all? And what the hell is in this Cinnamon Latte?





	How Inconvenient, Old Bean

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hogwartshousesnet Mini-Bang on Tumblr. 
> 
> Art for this piece by the lovely Nevylle. 
> 
> A huge thank you to Pierrej92 for betaing (and also for being wonderful always).

Draco’s head hit the table with an audible thunk. He _really_ hated it here.

Or at least, he really _wished_ he hated it here. It would be more satisfying when he found himself in the middle of these creative blocks if he was also miserable in his surroundings.

Truthfully, he would be just as comfortable working in some trendy-but-still-a-chain cafe, where cheap prints were the only pieces of art, and the music was soothing mainstream indiepop with songs that were just similar enough to be indistinguishable. The type of place where boys wore beanies in July with glasses they didn’t need, and writing screenplays on computers that mummy and daddy had bought them for Uni. The type of place where the coffee was always burnt, the baked goods were bland, and the staff all looked identically intimidating.

At least in a place like that, when he had no ideas and his sketchbook taunted him by sitting blank, he could blame his misery on his surroundings; Draco’s scowl could be because of other people and not his inability to do his fucking job.

Of course, this place wasn’t like that at all, and he hated that he didn’t hate it even slightly. The chairs were comfortable, but not at all trendy. The tables were the ideal height, and his little back corner was bright from the patio doors. The music was always an eclectic and bizarrely catchy mix; sometimes, it was old rock, sometimes it was a heart wrenching soul-blues. The pastries came from a bakery uptown that had always made a delicious blueberry scone. Draco’s Americano was always rich and dark, and the perfect temperature. Normally, he could happily spread out for hours on end, barely taking in his surroundings, drinking way too much caffeine because Deigo kept putting new cups in front of him while he was fully focused on his sketch.

 _Diego_.

Draco’s head snapped up. He supposed the fact that his boyfriend worked here should have made the list of pros about The Old Bean — he filed the fact it hadn't in the worrying list of things he kept forgetting to appreciate about the man. This list, however, was becoming increasingly long.

He let his head fall again with an audible—and possibly too dramatic—groan.

“Still stuck?” a voice above him said, setting a mug down on the table. It was late afternoon; Draco knew he shouldn’t really keep drinking coffee, and Diego knew he shouldn’t really keep bringing him coffee. And yet, here they were.

“Yes,” Draco whined, turning his face but not lifting his head. “How the _fuck_ does one add a ‘ _fresh, whimsical spin_ ’ to a unicorn? A unicorn is a fucking unicorn. White. Horn. Rainbow tail, which is utterly ridiculous, let me tell you. But children know what they like, and they like rainbow _fucking_ tails.”

“Mhmm,” Diego grinned. “Have I ever mentioned that it is a very good thing that you are never expected to go to the book release events for the stuff you draw? Actually, it is a very good thing that you are _never_ , _ever_ where tiny humans are.”

“Yes, well, there is a reason I am an anonymous illustrator,” he said, muffled because his face was back on his sketch book.

“Hang in there. I’m done in an hour and we can go out for dinner,” Diego said soothingly, running a hand through Draco’s hair. The act was still surprisingly comforting, never grating. Yet another pro. He picked his head up to watch him walk away.

Six foot, built, and with that nearly-too-long dirty blond hair. Draco knew intellectually that the man was gorgeous, simply from having spent two years existing in the world with him; it was hard to ignore the fact that everyone checked out your boyfriend, especially when he was in one of his ‘ _I’m just gonna try not shaving_ ’ phases. Not Draco's type at all, really.

Still, it was hard to correlate Diego's beauty with his personality, once you knew him. He was the ultimate softy, a caregiver; it didn't match with the chiselled, blasé exterior— and even that was part of his charm. He was oozing in contradiction; the ass of a man who could expect to be worshipped, and yet with the personality of a saint.

Draco loved him, and he had since Diego had picked Draco up off some random bar floor two years ago. Loved him since, in no uncertain terms, he had saved Draco's life. He had been such a mess at that point that’d he’d been pretty horrible at first. Still, with steady praise and stalwart love, the relationship had become a comfortable thing, steeping Draco's life in more cosy safety than he had ever known.

Did it matter that Diego did not actually know what he had saved him _from?_ Or that he had no idea what Draco had done in his youth? Did it matter that he had no idea that Draco was a wizard?

He preferred not to think about it.

Draco groaned, picking up a pen and his mug at the same time, determined to get something done before the end of the day. He took a sip and immediately spat it onto the page in front of him. He called out at a quickly retreating form, “Diego! What the fuck is this?”

“Not my fault,” Diego laughed over his shoulder, “he said you’d had too much espresso today.”

Draco ground his teeth together. That one tiny pronoun was why this place sucked so much, despite not sucking at all.

It was owned by none other than Harry _Bloody_ Potter.

It was a testament to how much he loved Diego that he spent any time in this place, especially after he’d discovered how small London really was.

“Diego!” he called again, but the jerk just chuckled and shrugged, not even turning around this time.

“Take it up with him.” Draco heard him say.

For a minute, Draco just stared down at the white, milky substance that had been placed before him. He watched it cautiously, as though at any second, it might rear up and kill him. He sniffed it. He held it up to his face. Then, carefully, he took another sip. There was way too much sweetness initially, but underneath, there was a complex, wintery spiciness that warmed the pit of his stomach comfortably. And it was sort of, kind of, hesitantly, _delicious_.

He took a few more sips, scowling as the silkiness of the milk caught up to him, and it stopped feeling quite so sweet. Finally, he sighed in frustration and threw the pen on the table. Taking the cup with him, he stormed to the front of the shop.

“What the fuck is _this_?” he demanded once he had reached the front.

The man standing there might as well have still been seventeen; it honestly was not fair for someone to have changed so little. Course, half the problem was that, to this day, Potter still had only two facial expressions. Either stunned and slightly confused, or annoyed and suspicious of Draco’s very existence. Apparently today, he was choosing the dunce hat.

“Um, hi?” Potter said, tilting his head and not answering the question.

Draco took a deep breath so he didn’t ruin everything by punching his boyfriend’s boss. He tried again. “What. Is. This,” he asked in his calmest voice.

“Cinnamon latte,” Potter shrugged, crouching down again, continuing with whatever he was doing with the large, glass front display case.

“No, it isn’t,” Draco frowned, glaring at the cup. “I’ve had lattes before. They are all...gross. Milky. And fake. Just _wrong_. This is…”

Diego laughed, overhearing the conversation from the other side of the bar, where he was rinsing out cups. “Cue the syrup defense,” he sang.

Surprisingly, Potter chuckled softly before standing up to face Draco again. “You’ve had other lattes in _bad_ cafes,” he said, putting his hands flat on the counter as though defending a court case. “They use bottled syrup, and heat the milk too fast, and so, of course, it tastes wrong. It _is_ wrong. I make the syrups myself. It's not hard, and it tastes way better. Not surprised you noticed.”

Draco glared at Diego, who was still laughing traitorously, and said, “You make the….for the love of all that is—Potter, why am I drinking this?”

Potter crossed his arms and shrugged again, “Diego said you were stuck on some piece you’re working on. You needed a change of perspective. _And_ less caffeine.”

“I–” Draco said, dropping off when he realised he had no response here.

“You should come sit at the bar,” Potter said casually, going back to his work for the second time.

“What?” Draco sputtered, confused as to how he had lost this conversation so completely, and in such a short amount of time. He'd been ready to tear a strip off of Potter for messing with his coffee, but instead, he was just frazzled and confused.

“It’s dead in here,” Potter added from inside the glass. “You can keep Dee company.”

“I...um,” Draco said, looking at the mug in his hands again.

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Diego laughed again. “You’ve left him without a snappy comeback. I should keep you on speed dial.”

Draco chose not to try and untangle that mess. He sipped his latte again and grimaced.

The damned thing was delicious.

* * *

And so, without a valid reason why he _shouldn’t_ come sit closer to his boyfriend, Draco packed up his things and moved to the bar. He had to admit, it was nice to have Diego asking random questions, stroking his shoulder as he passed by. While he was stuck like this, it made a nice change to be distracted rather than stare at a blank page angrily.

The few hours that afternoon soon turned into several days of hanging out at the last seat on the corner of the counter, out of the way and unobtrusive. No longer hidden alone in the cubby corner, Draco was forced to consider the surreal fact that he was voluntarily sitting in a Muggle cafe.

In _Harry Potter’s_ Muggle Cafe.

Even more ridiculous was the fact that he really wasn't _that_ uncomfortable. Despite the fact that they hadn’t had even the semblance of a conversation about their history or the war, Potter seemed to be content to treat Draco with bland indifference. Which was fine by him, since he felt like otherwise, things would very quickly come to blows, making the explanation of _‘we just went to school together_ ’ a little harder for Diego to believe.

So, Draco allowed the bizarre truce to continue. He watched as Diego and Harry skillfully danced around each other in the narrow space, joking and cajoling constantly, handling the afternoon rush with a breezy confidence that made Draco feel very inadequate. It was clear they were both good at this, and the customers loved them; they had a playful banter that Draco had never heard from Diego before, and stupid nicknames that seemed to shift and disappear at a whim. As far as he could see, things were never spilt or broken, even as they jumped and shifted to both ends of the counter with hot objects and glass.

Draco quickly became fascinated with the rhythm of the place; the regulars, whose drinks the boys knew without having to ask. The chores and stocking that just seemed to mysteriously happen. The endless flurry of activity. Potter sometimes sang to himself, bopping to the music he’d clearly chosen to suit his mood. Diego was obsessive about keeping the cups at the same heights. He would listen in fascination as Potter seamlessly discussed everything from politics to stocks to _pop culture_.

It was nice, being up here with them, but it was not helping his complete lack of inspiration. Getting very close to desperate as his deadline loomed, he'd started sketching random objects just to stop the feeling that he was being mocked by the heavy paper.

With four days left, and only images of scones and coffee cups on the page, Diego made some crack about how productive Draco looked in the quiet shop. Draco had no choice but to throw his sketchbook in retaliation. Irritatingly, Diego was quick and he caught it deftly, laughing heartily, drawing attention to them.

“Still stuck, then?” he said wryly.

“Stuck on what?” Potter asked as he walked over, leaning on the counter beside Diego. Draco hated when he did that; it made it impossible to ignore the lithe line of Potter’s body, the strength of hard work etched into his arms, the flush of being around steam constantly. And since noticing these things made him uncomfortable at the best of times, noticing them on Potter made him feel downright anxious. He fixed his gaze on Diego, opting for cool disinterest rather than anger, hoping to end the conversation sooner.

“He’s having a hard time with unicorns,” Diego teased, making Draco wince. Diego, of course, had no idea that bringing up unicorns in present company wasn’t a great plan.

Sure enough, Potter’s face darkened imperceptibly. No doubt, he was reliving the night in the forest, just as he himself had been all month. It's hard to forget your first unicorn sighting anyway, but to see one the way they both had was...

Draco drew in a breath and waited for the rage to hit.

For eight years, he’d been living safely. Comfortable now in the Muggle world, with no ties to the Magical community, it was easy for Draco to get wrapped up in day-to-day life. It wasn’t that he had forgotten anything. That would be impossible, and he’d never really tried. But, on a casual Thursday, he didn’t spend a great deal of time thinking about his twelve-year-old self.

Most of the time, when he was having a good month, it felt right; it felt fair and normal and human. He was allowed to worry about paying his rent and whether or not his partner had bought milk on the way home. He was allowed to fantasise about getting a cat without ever really doing it. Draco was allowed to get a bit conceited and spend too much time on his hair. He was human, and he was alive, and he had chosen to survive — for which he didn’t need to apologise.

Except that, for two weeks after discovering that Potter owned the place where Diego was working, he had fallen into such all out despair that he’d almost lost the plot completely. If he was allowed anywhere near Draco’s life, Potter would make it a living hell, just as he always had. He would tear down, brick by brick, the carefully constructed comfort zone that he had painstakingly created.

He’d decided to never set foot in the place, and he’d managed quite well at first. Until he’d decided to give up the office space he’d been borrowing from the publisher, with its bland walls and silence. It wasn’t working for him; he needed to be able to people watch, to drown out chatter and focus. After a series of failed experiments in parks and public libraries, Diego had suggested he just suck it up and come to the cafe, where he could supply him with free coffee and snacks. He’d reluctantly agreed, since trying to explain why he didn’t want to be near Potter was out of the question. Yet, at that moment, he’d begun the countdown to the day when everything fell apart.

So here he stood, wincing and waiting for Potter to out him, or mock him, or worst of all, tell Diego who he really was.

Potter cleared his throat and pushed himself off the counter, “Unicorns, hey? Like, white and a horn and rainbow tails?”

Potter stared Draco straight in the face, and Draco let himself breathe for a moment before nodding.

“Except he’s supposed to be putting a new spin on them,” Diego quipped helpfully.

“Well,” Potter said, scratching his face and considering. “You could make them look like mooncalves...it’d be kinda cute. Unless that’s too weird.”

Draco looked at Potter hard, searching his face for the teasing, for the punch line, for the anger. When it didn’t appear, the tiny portion of his brain that was trying desperately to find an angle into this job clung to the idea like a liferaft. Mooncalves, with their long necks and big eyes, their fluffy, definitely pony-like tail. It could work. The story the art was for was a bit goofy and fun.

“You just,” Potter muttered, averting his gaze, showing his discomfort for the first time. “You know...add a horn.”

“Mooncalves,” Draco repeated, looking down at his blank page. “Mooncalves might work.”

He started sketching, and immediately, the scene began to take shape. Sticking a horn on a mooncalf was, in fact, adorable.

“Um,” Draco said about half an hour later, looking up for the first time and noticing that the cafe had become considerably busier. Still, Diego came over at his utterance and cooed appreciatively at what he found. He snatched the sketchbook from Draco’s hands and held it aloft.

“Oi, Harry, look!” he shouted. “Your weird, nonsensical solution helped! Sometimes, I swear you two are speaking in code. I mean, I suppose we had strange, school-specific short hand too, but…”

Potter laughed but came over after handing a drink to a young woman with a beatific smile. Then, he proceeded to stare at the sketchbook for an uncomfortably long time.

Draco noticed everything in the long silence. He heard the bell on the door in stereo, felt the air from the vent above his head, and felt his face heat. Draco knew that Potter had taken a breath he hadn’t let out, and that Diego was beaming his _‘I’m super proud of everything_ ’ smile. Finally, Potter took the book from Diego and held it up to his face, leaving him to head back to the cash to serve a customer. Draco didn’t know why he cared so much, just that he did, and that he was terrified.

“You ever seen one?” Potter asked quietly, flicking his gaze to Diego, making sure he couldn’t hear them.

“Of course not,” Draco said cautiously, “they’re very rare, nowadays.”

“You’d never know,” Potter said, looking at him as he put the sketchbook back down. “You’re very good,” he took a step back and crossed his arms.

“Also, you should call me Harry, or at least try. It’s getting weird,” he shrugged and went back to work, heedless to the fact that he had just shattered everything Draco comprehended about their connection.

Potter didn’t offer compliments. Potter didn’t praise him, or help him, or as a rule, act in any positive way toward him. It threw him for such a loop that he spent the next hour with a coloured pencil in his hand that never touched paper. He just watched Potter, for far longer than was likely appropriate.

As they approached the end of the day, and customers dwindled, Draco gave up on trying to sort out what he was feeling and started to pack up. Diego was up on a ladder, Potter was flitting about with closing procedure, and the day had a satisfying finished feeling to it. Despite his earlier emotional rattling, Draco felt accomplished and happy. He smiled up at his boyfriend when he noticed he was being watched.

“Harry draws too, you know,” he said lightly, smiling back.

“I don’t, not really,” Harry replied quickly, scrubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I just doodle.”

“You should give him a cup tattoo,” Diego said, turning back to the shelf he was stocking, once again entirely unaware of the very uncomfortable situation he’d created.

“Um, what?” Draco said, confused and a little, inexplicably, dry-mouthed.

“He just uses the pen for the takeaway cups, but he draws really awesome designs. I’ve wanted to get a couple of them permanently inked,” Diego laughed. “Go on, Harry. He’ll get a kick out of it.”

Diego pulled his own marker from his apron pocket and tossed it down to Harry, who stared up at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and walking over to where Draco was sitting. He hesitated a moment more before pulling Draco’s arm forward by the wrist.

_His left arm._

Draco physically could not stop himself from recoiling. The mark was faint now, barely visible, really. It was almost mistakable as a scar, most days. Deigo thought it was a burn mark from having a tattoo lasered off. But, regardless, when Potter touched the skin of that arm, he felt violently ill. A phantom burning sensation shot through the whole limb as he pulled his hand from Harry’s grasp and put it decidedly under the table.

He couldn’t look at the man across from him as his cheeks flared with shame, the type of shame that he hadn’t felt since he was eighteen. He waited for the backlash, a pause that was becoming annoyingly familiar.

But his preparation was unnecessary. The backlash didn’t come. He heard a small sigh, full of resignation, come from Potter’s mouth, before he calmly reached out and took Draco’s right wrist instead. Draco looked up at Diego, who was still on the ladder straightening coffee bags, oblivious to his discomfort. When Draco let his gaze drift back to Potter, the glint of his glasses hid the expression in his eyes.

“You really need to calm down, Draco,” Potter said softly, so that only he could hear. “I’m doing my best to give you the benefit of the doubt, you know.”

Draco held his breath for a moment, until he needed oxygen. The light itch of a pen tip hit his skin, and he remained frozen for the first minute. The hand that slowly turned his wrist was rough, calloused from too many burns and too much time spent damp; the shift of fingers lightly on his skin kept making Draco’s stomach jolt.

As the rhythm of the pen continued, he felt himself relax slightly, unconsciously studying the focused face in front of him. The scar was still there, but it was so faint now that it was almost white. If you didn’t know to look for it, the messy curled fringe would hide it completely. The glasses weren’t the same dorky circular frames either. The ones he wore now were still weirdly large on his face, but in a stylish, almost trendy way. It was irritating, and a little endearing. Draco shook his head, clearing it of that thought, just as Potter pulled back and capped the pen.

“Voila. Pen tattoo,” he said simply, turning back to clearing baked goods into donation boxes.

Draco looked down at his arm and found an intricate, beautifully stylized peacock. It was simple, really just a multitude of intersecting lines and swirls, but it was proud and graceful. It’s head ended in a point, connected to its wing. Its body and tail were created using swirled, swooping lines. He studied it appreciatively, reaching down to trace the dried ink.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said to Deigo. “Didn’t know you could draw, _Harry_.”

The name felt foreign on his tongue, but it made both other men smile small, sweet smiles that made Draco feel like he would get over his hesitation.

“Never really came up, did it? Besides, I never used to...before,” Harry said.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Draco said haltingly, trying to offer a boon. “How did you end up here. Owner, and stuff?”

“Long story,” Harry muttered.

“Got it from the past owner,” Diego said as he descended. “Was so impressed with how Harry ran the place that he gave it to him when he retired, isn’t that right?”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, took a breath. “Um,” he started. “Yup.”

Draco watched Harry a moment longer, enjoying the illicit tug of being in on a lie. He knew there was more to the story, but before he could press the issue, Harry had cleared his throat and started walking away.

“Sorry, Gogo, your turn with the lavs,” he apologised, tapping his watch meaningfully as he went to lock the door.

Diego sighed a jovial sigh, stage whispering to Draco, “Seems it’s my turn a lot.” Still, he got the bucket from the mop closet, made them all laugh by saluting, and headed to the back. Draco continued to pack up as Harry flew around the cafe, expertly inverting chairs and pulling out a broom.

“So, you going to tell me the real story?” Draco finally said.

“What?”

“Of how you got this place?” he clarified, turning to look at Harry expectantly. “I assume it has something to do with our...um, proclivities.”

“ _Proclivities_?” Harry said wryly, eyebrow quirked. “Ha. Interesting word choice.”

“Well, would you like me to innumerate with my Muggle boyfriend ten feet away?” Draco shot back, his own eyebrow hitting a familiar height as he crossed his arms to glare at Potter.

“Chill, Draco, I was teasing you,” Harry smirked. “How do you, of all people, manage? Dating a Muggle? Living like a Muggle? Don’t get me wrong, you seem like you’re doing it well, but I do wonder.”

“Long story,” Draco mimicked.

“Fine,” Harry laughed. “I deserved that. Truthfully, the story is super embarrassing, and I’m scared to tell you since you have quite enough material to use against me.”

Draco looked at his feet, embarrassed. “I think I’m doing a pretty good job of not using anything against anyone... these days.”

Harry burst into a short trip of laughter that forced Draco to look up.

“Fuck,” he said. “I’m really off my game today. Joking, Draco. I was joking. Ugh, I haven’t had to tell anyone this in ages. I guess the beginning is true. I worked here right after I dropped out of Auror training–”

“You... _dropped_ out?” Draco exclaimed, slightly shocked by such an easy admission of failure from the Chosen One.

“You didn’t hear? Thought everyone had heard…”

“I was already living out here, by then. I...uh, I didn’t stick around for long. With my family, and Astoria. It wasn’t conducive to living,” Draco scuffed his shoe against the tile.

“Right, uh...well, fair. Anyway, I worked here, but despite being raised by Muggles, I never really got used to living with them, and I was just out of the war and the trials, and Hogwarts, really,” Harry rambled, looking nervous. “I didn’t exactly...do a great job of blending in.”

“Oh Merlin, what did you do?” Draco said, the long forgotten term slipping out in his horror.

“Nothing that bad,” Harry laughed. “But the Muggle owner who worked here got suspicious pretty fast about how I was managing to get everything done as quickly as I did. And then he started following me home and stuff. So, I sort of, um–”

“Oh, Harry, no,” Draco groaned, holding his head in his hands.

“I didn’t really gauge my strength that well,” Harry said miserably. “I’d never Obliviated anyone.”

“Are you _serious_?” Draco said in horror. “What happened to him?”

“He's fine! He's fine. Well…he's fine now,” he amended. “At the time, he sort of forgot that he had a family and a business and disappeared to Tenerife for a week. Took me days to track him down. And then, when I got him home, he couldn’t actually handle the place. So I just sort of...took over.”

“Holy fuck, you really Harry Pottered that one, didn't you,” Draco laughed.

“Hey!” Harry shouted, but started laughing too. “I resent that.”

“Whatever, _Golden One_. Where is he now? God, he doesn’t like...live with you or something?

“No,” Harry grimaced. “No, no. I bought he and his wife a house, in Chiswick. They’re perfectly happy. They just have no memory of The Old Bean.”

Harry suddenly looked directly at Draco and beamed, and the expression was so out of the blue that Draco froze for a moment. In all their history, he had definitely never been the recipient of a full blown Potter smile. It was certainly disarming. He suddenly felt like he was part of a very secret club he'd never realised he wanted to join, and he felt quite out of breath for some reason.

“Well, you were right not to tell me,” Draco smirked, recovering himself as Harry looked at him expectantly. “That is a terribly useful story to have in my back pocket.”

“Fuck off,” Harry laughed, finishing the mopping just as Diego reemerged, smiling at the scene in front of him and jolting Draco back to Muggle reality.

“Ah, good, male bonding,” he said jovially. “I was worried you two might kill each other while I was back there. Ready to go, love?”

Draco nodded, picking up his bag, but unable to meet Diego’s eye.

“Night, Harry,” he said calmly as he walked by, hoping that the fizzing in his head wasn't apparent on his face.

“Night, Draco. Night, Gogo,” Potter said just as calmly.

As they walked home hand in hand, Diego kept looking at him sidelong, until finally, Draco snapped and pulled them to a stop.

“Okay, spill,” Draco said. “What is it?”

“You just look so happy,” Diego shrugged. “It’s nice to see you and Harry work out some of your issues or whatever.”

“What issues?” Draco said, eyes narrowed.

“Search me, since you never talk about how you know each other, but it's definitely old animosity or something. What was it? Sport rivalry? Academic?”

“Merlin, no,” Draco laughed.

“ _Merlin_?” Diego grinned, pulling Draco into his arms. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Draco said lightly. “Just a weird thing we used to say at school. Harry reminded me of it. It’s stupid. Look, things between he and I were….complicated. And–”

“And you don’t want to get into it,” Diego smiled. “Yeah. I know the blanket policy on stories from the past, Dray. I wasn’t prying. I just like it when you’re happy.”

“Well, _I_ like it when you like things,” Draco smiled, kissing Diego softly and letting the simpering gushiness wash away his discomfort.

“I like  _you_.”

“I like you too, you sap,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Too far, goofball. Come on, I’m starving.”

Predictably, Diego dropped the topic of his interactions with Harry — because he was Diego and that’s what he did. They had a perfectly normal evening of telly and leftover curry, cleaned the kitchen together, went to bed late, but Draco tossed and turned for an hour before finally dropping off, some nondescript, unsettled emotion keeping him from rest.

* * *

 When he woke up in the middle of the night, there was an imprint of a peacock on his face. He scrubbed it in the bathroom mirror, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. He’d woken with Diego’s arm slung possessively across his hips, and it had dragged the entire list into the foreground so that he couldn’t ignore the problem. It was easy in the light of day, with Diego smiling at him, making him feel important and protected.

It was easy to ignore the fact that he was bored.

He’d been trying for months to shove aside the niggling feeling, and when he was in a good mood, it wasn’t that hard. When he wasn’t – which, frankly, was pretty often – the fact that everything about his life had become very predictable was impossible to ignore. And he was starting to find the predictability...difficult.

When Diego had first arrived on the scene, Draco hadn’t been much of a person at all. He’d been living off of hush-money from his parents, promising not to tell anyone that he’d actually gilted Astoria because he was gay. He was in a flat share with people whose names he honestly couldn’t remember now, drinking and partying way too much. He had nightmares that kept him from sleeping at night, and he couldn’t stop moving for five minutes during the day without panicking.

He’d met Diego in the midst of a tail spin. He was running out of money, his flatmates had stolen all his gold family heirlooms, and he was quickly becoming something a Malfoy had not been in a very long time; broke.

Since he had no plans to continue surviving, Draco had thrown himself into a dangerous and reckless lifestyle. He went to the club every night that week, drinking until he was close to blacking out, then taking home the first thing he found. Diego, however, had refused to leave him alone the night he’d found him in the bathroom, passed out on the floor. He kept trailing around after Draco, shoving water in his hands until Draco had given up and gone home. Diego had followed him home, and slept on the couch the entire night.

Then, he’d just never really stopped following Draco. At first, it had been infuriating; Draco didn’t trust people easily and he hated being treated like he was broken. The ridiculous man hadn’t given up though; Diego didn’t argue, didn’t fight back. He never questioned Draco’s choices, or forced him to do anything. This unwavering bolstering had been exactly what he’d needed. Someone to just let him make his own decisions, not try and coerce him in any way. Fury had drifted into tolerance, and tolerance had become affection. Affection, as it is wont to do, became love.

That’s what was making this so painful, really.  Love wasn’t the problem. He just wasn’t sure that was enough anymore.

For either of them.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he thought about Diego’s banter with Potter at the coffee shop. He thought about the nicknames and the teasing, and the self-deprecating laugh he never used at home. What did it mean that he hadn’t known any of those things were even  _possible_ from his blond-haired, blue-eyed, perfect boyfriend. How much was Diego still protecting Draco?

Not to mention the fact that Draco wasn’t fully himself either. Whenever he felt himself get too angry, he’d leave the flat. Whenever he was in a terrible mood, or when the nightmares returned, he’d just hide. That couldn’t be right, could it?

Draco was absolutely sick to the back teeth of being agreed with all the time; it made it very difficult to have a debate, impossible to make a tough decision, when no one would weigh the pros and cons with you. Draco enjoyed challenge, and fire. He had grown up in the Slytherin dorms, where wit and guile were the tools of the trade, where you learned to survive in the heat of verbal battle. He had needed kid gloves while he healed, but now he wasn’t so sure he could handle much more softness.

He’d been well for a long, long time. Realistically, how long could they manage to be these cheap photocopies around each other? Ten years? Twenty? Fifty? Would they die in each other’s arms with final placating terms of endearment, and the eggshells they’d never trod on at their feet?

He pushed his hair back as he dried his face and turned to find Diego leaning on the doorframe, watching him steadily through hooded eyes.

“You okay?” he said to Draco in his soft, midnight voice. The one made of music and cotton, the one that soothed slights and lulled him back to sleep.

Draco felt himself smile, reach forward to clasp Diego’s arm. “I’m fine,” he said soothingly. “Just needed water.”

He crawled into the bed, into the soft white duvet, and closed his eyes, putting the list away again. These weren’t _middle-of-the-night_ decisions. He could work it out another time.

* * *

 For the next month, Draco was so busy with commissions that he barely had time to drink the lattes put in front of him, let alone dwell on existential crisis, or the strange draw of one former childhood enemy. More than once, he had broken his own rule and worked well into the evening.

The ‘Mooncalf-icorn’, as Potter insisted on calling it, was a big hit, and the publisher had decided Draco would be the illustrator for the entire series, a simpering and inane group of board books about magical creatures. Every time he brought it up, Harry would burst into uncontrollable laughter, and eventually drag Draco down with him. It was hard not to laugh at the Muggle idea of what constituted a ‘ _magical creature_ ’; fairies with cute dresses and gnomes with pointed hats. Centaurs that helped passing children, and friendly dragons that let people ride them.

They’d end up in hysterics every time Draco finished a sketch, and Harry’s face was transformed into lightness and clarity, the weight of pretending to be someone else momentarily lifted. It made Draco wonder what living as a Muggle had done to his own personality, his own appearance. He hadn’t noticed, but it was hard to see small changes in your own face.

Diego was relatively jovial throughout the entire _‘creatures’_ process, but once or twice, mid-giggle fit, Draco could have sworn that he’d seen a tinge of jealousy and frustration on his partner’s face. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but it did give him pause. Was it possible that Draco wasn’t alone in his discontent?

The day he carried the last of his work into the publisher, it was a week until Samhain. Draco was typically morose; this time of year always made him homesick, which always made him angry at himself. He missed his stupid family bonfire and the party, and he missed Hogwarts Halloween just as much. He felt a distinct self-loathing that those things were true. He was, unsurprisingly, in a foul mood that was not helped by the October drizzle that had descended upon London.

He had an itch in the back of his throat, and he had felt all day like someone was watching him. He was annoyed and on edge when he stalked into the coffee shop looking for Diego.

“Can I have a coffee?” he growled at Harry, sitting heavily in a chair at the bar.

“Yeah,” Harry exhaled shortly, plunking a cup down and filling it from a carafe.

“Where is he?” Draco grumbled.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry asked, annoyance colouring his tone.

“Could ask you the same question,” Draco bristled, pouring sugar into his mug.

“He hates Halloween,” explained Diego, sauntering in from the storage cupboard carrying a box of napkins. “He’s grumpy for like a week before hand. I don’t know why Harry here is so crusty, but if you could kindly both fuck off, I’d appreciate it immensely. You are bringing the whole place down. You hand those sketches in?”

“Yes,” Draco said shortly.

“And they didn’t fire you,” Diego said, an intriguing hint of irritation in his voice. “Miraculous. Harry, will you change this bloody music? It’s depressing.”

Harry huffed, but he did move the stereo to the next, only slightly less morose track.

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong,” Harry said. “I just feel…like my hackles are up.”

Draco nodded. He felt the same way. He sipped his coffee and tried to get a handle on himself. It wasn’t like anything had happened. They sat in unpleasant silence for a while.

All three of them looked up automatically as the tiny bell above the door signalled customers.

“Well, my goodness, Theo,” a deep, clear female voice said cooly. “I think we may have _found_ it.”

Draco’s mouth fell open as his eyes landed on an elegant, older, and thoroughly delighted looking Pansy Parkinson. His gaze flicked first to Diego, then to Harry, as he tried to calculate his move. Even as he did, Harry had subtly shifted to stand in front of Diego; ever the saviour. In this moment, Draco was endlessly thankful. Behind Pansy, Theodore Nott stood stoically, looking bored as he studied the random posters on the walls.

“Pansy, this is really not how we should be spending Friday,” he said, his voice the same quiet, strong baritone it had always been. “Get it over with, and we can go have some actual fun.”

“But darling, look! It’s Draco _Malfoy._ With Harry Potter! In his little Muggle hidey hole! Don’t you want an autograph?” Pansy simpered, stepping forward as Harry simultaneously moved toward her.

“Parkinson, whatever you want, why don’t we just step outside? These people did nothing wrong,” Harry said coolly.

Pansy laughed, the sound grating and distorted, sending a chill through Draco. That sound was one that he knew well; the sound of Pansy exacting revenge.

“Still so dramatic Potter,” she said, patting him on the shoulder and smirking when he flinched. “I’m not going to  _hurt_ anyone. What would be the point? Besides, I’m not here for you, you conceited little...”

She turned slowly, grinning, “Draco? How have you been?”

Diego was looking between Pansy and Draco, and he could tell that Diego did not like what he found. He had that pinched, _I'm gonna be a big damned hero_ ’ look on his face, and it was making Draco very nervous. 

“Pansy?” Draco said, dragging out a rusty, but serviceable, Pureblood voice of indifference.

“Is this your Muggle  _pet_? We’ve heard about him,” Pansy leaned on the counter, chin in her hand, breasts out. “Pretty. Not your type,” she said, blinking her lashes at him.

“Times change,” Draco said.

Pansy scoffed, and shot a sidelong glance at Harry, looking back meaningfully at Draco and making his face heat in embarrassment. He'd forgotten just how much Pansy knew.

“Clearly, they don't change all that much,” she teased.

“What do you want, Pans?”

Her head snapped up and she stood up straight.

“Don’t you dare,” she said dangerously. “Don't you dare address me so informally. I am the matriarch of a noble house, and you are a _disinherited_ whore. Do not believe we are on equal ground here, fool. I am here with a message from your mother. This is your last chance. After Samhain, the offer to return to your station and your house expires.”

“How did you find me?” Draco said, ignoring her message.

“You’ve been tracked the whole time, you idiot,” Theo said, taking a threatening step towards Harry. “Did you think they’d just let you take their money and go?”

“They haven’t been paying me for years,” Draco spat. “They must know I am not coming back. Pansy, just go.”

“You are an idiot. I am ashamed of myself, frankly, for having wasted so much time on you,” Pansy stepped closer to him, spat in his face, and recoiled as if to slap him. Diego’s hand shot out and had a hold on her wrist before she managed to unfurl. “ _Ooh_ , he’s feisty, is he? Surprising,” Pansy said, facing Diego.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Diego said, iron in his voice. Pansy laughed and pulled her arm from his grasp.

“I decide what I do, _Muggle_. Theo?"

“Finally,” Theo said, sounding bored. “Potter, don’t do anything stupid, and we’ll have no reason to come back here.” He looked around once more, derision etched into his pores, “ _Trust me_.”

Finally, they stormed out and Potter sagged against the counter.

“What the actual fuck, Draco,” he whispered, voice shaking.

“I know,” Draco said, burying his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Take Diego and go home,” Potter rasped through clenched teeth. Draco stood up and tried to move towards Harry, who held up a hand. “I need...I just need you not to be here, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded, uncomfortable and shaken, and went outside while Diego got his coat. They started walking, but they only made it a block before Draco was sick in a bin. He had never wanted to Apparate more than he did right now, the seemingly endless six blocks weighing him down and slowing his steps.

How could he have been so stupid as to believe that they didn’t know where he was? That they hadn’t been watching? That they didn’t know where he lived, and what he did, and… and _Diego_ . Anyone he’d ever talked to had been in danger, this whole time. And now, he’d dragged Harry back into the mess of Pureblood politics _—_ inserted himself into the life of someone who truly did not deserve it. He was shaking, teeth chattering, by the time he finally collapsed into bed. For an hour, Diego lay beside him, stroking his back and soothing him as his breath finally slowed.

“I...I’m sorry,” he finally muttered. “My family are…”

“They were family? _F_ _uck_. They...well, they seemed very dangerous, actually.”

Draco considered for a second, thought about how much he could give away, how much he needed to say before he broke everything anyway. But before he could answer, Diego had sat up.

"I kept just waiting, you know?” he said, one hand still on Draco’s arm. “Because I didn't really think it mattered. A lot of people get so caught up in their past and can't live in the present. And I watched you try and heal from whatever was haunting you, so I didn’t want to make it worse. Once you were… you know, better, it didn’t seem to matter as much,” he paused, as though trying to decide how to continue. Draco took a breath to interject.

“These things are adding up to strange, though, Draco,” Diego continued. “The tension with Harry. The scars. That word those people used... Muggle? What’s it mean? Who are you? Is it some sort of cult?”

“It’s so complicated, I don’t even know where to begin,” Draco said truthfully, turning over to face the man he definitely did not deserve. What he found wounded him slightly. Diego’s face was foreign to him; it was set in a determined line, a hard crease between his eyes, a set to the jaw. Draco sat up slowly. This was definitely the start of a very difficult conversation, and it no longer felt appropriate to be lying down — even if his head was still spinning and his stomach was still in knots.

“It’s been two years, Dray,” Diego went on. “Two years of not knowing about this giant gap in who you are. Those people today... they were not fucking around,” he inhaled sharply, looking away. “I think that girl could have broken me in half. So, I think I need to know now?"

"Diego –”  
  
"Or I'm done,” he said in a clipped, cool tone, interrupting Draco’s most recently constructed excuse.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, feeling a tear he had been trying to corral sneak past his defences. He may not have been surprised, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sad. He took a deep breath before he whispered, "You won't like what you'll find. You'll be done anyway."  
  
For a moment, neither of them spoke; frozen in the moment, both processing.

"So... that’s it? We are just going to be done?" Diego finally muttered, nodding in resignation.

“Darling, we both know we’ve been done for a while. You deserve to be who you are really are, and we both know you can’t do that around me. You care too much about taking care of me.”

‘You’ve always needed that,” he said defensively.

“I know, and I... I love you, truly, but we have run the course, Diego. You deserve to be who you are around Harry. Silly, and mean. Angry sometimes.”

After a moment of sitting in this pathetic tableaux, a sad smile pasted itself on Diego’s face as he let go of Draco’s hand. “You know, Draco,” he said. “You deserve to be the person you are around Harry as well.”

With a suitcase and a pile of leftovers, Draco left Diego’s flat.

* * *

It took him two weeks to work up the courage to go back to The Old Bean, to find it within himself to apologise properly to Harry. He waited until a day when he knew Diego wasn’t working; not for his sake, but for Harry’s. He and Diego were on good terms, really, but he didn’t know how Potter felt about him without the safety of his connection to a favourite employee. 

When he stepped out of the blistering November wind, he found the cafe bustling and winced. That was not going to be in his favour. Bridget, the third barista he rarely saw, was fluttering about behind the counter. Draco looked around carefully, before he sat at his spot at the bar.

“What can I get you, love?” she asked him cheerfully.

“Mr Potter around?” he replied carefully.

“He’s just run to the bank. Should be back soon. Get you something while you wait?”

Draco smiled a wry smile, more to himself than her, as he muttered, “Cinnamon latte, please.”

He’d only been sitting for five minutes, sipping the delicate, delicious thing in front of him, when the bell rang and Harry bustled in, brushing rain from his coat.

“It’s raining cats and dogs out now, Bridge. I’d stay here for lunch if I were you,” he said, shaking his head like a dog and grinning at the counter. Which is when he noticed Draco, of course, meaning Draco had the wonderful privilege of seeing his bright, blooming smile disappear instantly. “So,” he said, striding purposefully forward. “He lives.”

“I won’t stay,” Draco said quickly, standing up and picking up the takeaway cup he had requested. “I just came to properly apologise, for Pansy.”

Harry’s face darkened even more, which hurt Draco in a physical way that he couldn’t quite process right now. “Sit, Draco,” he said in an icy but powerful tone, leaving Draco no choice but to sit.

“Did you not get a scone? They’re fresh,” Harry said, hanging up his coat, putting on an apron, and robotically handing Draco a plate.

“Um,” Draco replied, taking the plate. He was normally not at a loss for words, but here he was, once again without a script in front of Harry Potter. He honestly had no clue what was happening right now. He took a huge bite of warm scone, trying to buy himself time.

“Here’s the thing,” Potter said, whirling around suddenly and standing in front of him. “At first, I was really angry about the Incident, but whatever. They haven’t been back, and it’s not like I’m unable to take care of myself.”

Draco chewed, his mouth still full when he said, “Yeah, I know, but –”

“Only then, Diego comes in here the next day saying you two had split, and he didn’t even seem that upset, which felt... wrong. You two were so... I don’t know, perfect. It made sense, the two of you.”

“No, Harry,” Draco said sadly. “Diego was perfect.  _Is_ perfect. You know that.”

“Well, whatever, it was weird,” Harry said dismissively. “Diego took some time off, and I was sure you’d come waltzing in here to give me some big speech about the Pansy thing or about Diego. Only you didn’t, did you? You disappeared.”

Harry actually looked quite angry, which was confusing and at the same time, comforting. “This is daft, trust me, I know,” he went on. “But I am really angry at you. I was confused, at first, about why I was so sad. Until I took some time to think about it. And I've realised that I’m mad because you didn’t come talk to me yourself. Which is just– that’s fucked up, isn’t it? You’re still _Malfoy_.”

“I don’t think so, not really,” Draco said, staring Harry dead in the eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t come talk to you sooner… that wasn’t fair. I think maybe we are friends, Harry. Only I didn’t really act that way.”

Harry nodded, then looked away as he asked, “Why wasn’t he upset, Draco?”

“Mostly because it wasn’t that surprising. We need...different things. He needs someone who isn’t going to lie to him, who he doesn’t have to look after. I need someone who will challenge me. Question me.”

“That, and someone who knows you once fought in a war,” Harry interjected, looking instantly embarrassed.

The embarrassment was the trigger, and Draco felt like an idiot. It hit him with such astounding obviousness that he had to fight the urge to not slap himself for stupidity; all the things he’d been noticing, all the jovial afternoons, all the laughing, it all fell into a nice, neat line. He wanted to burst into hysterics at the inconvenience of the moment, and at the sudden force of sheer _feeling_.

For months, he’d been scrambling to work out what had changed, why he suddenly felt so uncomfortable with Diego. Right here, on a November afternoon, Harry stared at him, hard lines in his face, defiance in his expression, and explained absolutely everything without saying even one word.

Draco studied him a moment longer. He was going to make Draco work, that was for sure. But wasn't that what he'd just been saying he wanted? Someone who wasn't going to lap up everything he said. Someone who wouldn’t treat him like he was fragile and broken. He smiled, possibly a bit too widely, too predatorily, judging by the look on Harry’s face.

"Bet you're like that, aren't you, Potter?” Draco said, squinting appraisingly.

“What?” Harry asked defensively, backing up and crossing his arms.

“You know, strong enough. Strong when you need to be, but plenty stubborn too,” Draco said, taking a step away from the counter. "I'm sure of it. That's you to a tee."  
  
He picked up the takeaway cup again and grinned at Harry’s confusion.

“Look, Draco, I don’t know what you’re implying here, but –”

“Yeah, whatever,” Draco laughed. “We’ll pretend that for now, because I don’t think either of us are ready for anything else, but I’ll be back. Just accept my apology, Harry. I have to go.”

Harry looked at him with his mouth hanging open as he headed toward the door with his latte. Only when Draco had nudged the door open with his hip did Harry say, “Fine, apology accepted.”

Draco smiled, tipped an imaginary hat as the little bell tinkled, and headed outside.

“Well, that’s certainly inconvenient,” he grimaced to himself quietly.

* * *

 Draco let a month drift by, doing nothing more than stopping in for lattes as though nothing had changed. Unfortunately, the more time he spent _not_ sitting around and talking to him all day, the more certain he became that he needed more from Potter. He just had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do about it.

Even if Harry tolerated him more now, they had resolved exactly none of their issues. Not to mention the fact that on top of being Harry Bloody Potter, the man was the boss of his ex, which added a level of difficulty to a situation that really didn’t need more complications. So, he was just stuck, in an endless loop of clumsy flirting and cinnamon, feeling unhinged and desperate.

In the end, it was Diego who solved everything, which should have surprised him less than it did.

A week before Christmas, Draco was sat at the counter, on his third latte, laughing hysterically at Harry. He’d convinced him to put on Christmas carols, and had been treated to no fewer than three all out performances by Harry and Bridget, complete with dance numbers. He distantly heard the bell in the empty cafe, but it took a full thirty seconds for him to realise that it was Diego who was standing at the counter. He felt cold dread sweep through him until he actually looked over; Diego was grinning broadly, looking between Draco and Harry.

“I’m early for evening shift,” he said by way of explanation, shouting over ‘ _Jingle Bell Rock_ ’.

“I was just leaving,” Draco said, standing up and picking up his coat. Harry’s brow was twisted in discomfort, and Draco didn’t know what to do about it. He nodded at everyone in general and fled. He’d made it all the way to the door before he realised that Diego was right behind him.

“Wait, Dray,” he said, smiling. “Just, wait, you stubborn brat.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said in a rush. “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky, or anything. I’ll... I’ll stop coming here.”

“No, _idiot_ ,” Diego actually laughed. For a moment, he just stood there laughing at Draco. Just as Draco was starting to get annoyed, Diego sobered and cleared his throat. “You think he hasn’t told me you were still coming? If it bothered me, I’d have come to see you. Let’s not be that couple, seriously. It’s boring. Besides, I just came to say… you should really just ask him out, already.”

Draco's mouth fell open in shock as he stared at Diego stupidly. “Sorry…uh, what?” he floundered.

“You obviously like him. He obviously likes you. You’d actually be pretty good together, I think,” Diego said, gripping him on the shoulder gently. “Go back in there and ask him. Like, right now. Before you have too much time to think about it. We both know that would be terrible.”

“I can’t do that, he’s your boss.”

“He’s been something other than that for you for a long time. Draco, we are fine, you and I. We agreed on that already. Go,” Diego opened the door for him. “Be happy. I’ll go for a walk.”

He shoved Draco lightly back into the cafe, where the music had been turned down, and where Bridget had disappeared. Except for the old couple who always sat in the back with crosswords and tea, he was alone, and staring at the stupid, clueless facial expression of a completely confused Harry Potter.

“Hey, you forget something?” Harry asked innocently.

Draco looked right at him, took a deep breath, and blurted, “Go out with me.”

“Wh-what?” Harry stuttered.

“Go out with me,” Draco repeated, slower this time.

“What? Draco, don’t be daft."

“Right now,” Draco insisted. “You’re off in ten minutes, right? Just...let’s try it.”

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. He looked at his hands, and Draco felt triumphant as Harry's face flushed prettily.

“It makes no sense,” he said.

“Nope,” Draco shrugged.

“You’re just rebounding from Diego.”

“Maybe,” Draco nodded.

“We have too much... water, bridge, all that,” Harry said, looking him in the eye again.

“Yeah, probably,” Draco said, stepping closer.

“So?”

“So, go out with me.”

Harry took another breath, and shook his head. Draco prepared another argument, and was about to launch into it when Harry suddenly reached out and took off his apron. Draco felt every nerve ending in his body jolt; he was oddly terrified, so uncertain of himself that his knees felt weak. It was a very new feeling, and he definitely did not like it. He forgot to breathe as Harry got his coat and came out from behind the counter. He nodded at Draco, and held open the door. Draco walked out, taking a gasping breath in the fresh air. He tried to get a hold of himself, and thought about everything all at once. He’d never actually anticipated being here, with Potter willingly striding along beside him. The entire idea was insane. He shivered, half from the cold and half from the anticipation.

 _Fuck it,_  he thought to himself.

"Let's just get one thing out of the way, here," Draco said, drawing his coat closer, his shoulders back.

He took a deep breath, and turned toward Harry, who'd fallen easily into step with him despite his long stride. He gripped one of Harry’s shoulders, leaned in, and without hesitation, kissed him firmly. Shock only lasted a second before Harry grinned and kissed him back. His lips were chapped and felt different than Diego’s.

Different in the same way that an ember and blue flames were different; technically, they both burned, but one was far more dangerous than the other.


End file.
